Above the Law
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story # 93 Sam Kirk is settled in Chicago with his bride Jenny when a paparazzi's photo sharpens his longstanding distrust of Spock.


On his way home from the police station, Sam Kirk stopped at his old neighborhood to visit one of his former haunts. The dimly lit tavern had a nice friendly feeling. Settling in at the bar, he ordered a whiskey, straight up, hoping it would improve his mood. With Jenny expecting their first baby, he did not want to upset her with some angry outburst over the news he had heard while patrolling the city. It happened during a break, while Sam and his partner Clay Duval were parked in the squad car, drinking hot coffee. They were listening to a popular comedy show based right here in Chicago when the host started in on the latest celebrity gossip. Suddenly the man began talking about a liaison between Spock of Starfleet fame and his former captain's wife—artist Antonia Cordova Kirk. The long-time neighbors had been seen dining together at Warner Brothers studio a few months earlier. Now a paparazzi had secretly photographed them in an intimate embrace at Antonia's front door. The story finished with a tasteless joke regarding Spock's status as Kirk's second-in-command. Sam had felt the blood go straight to his head, and Clay's hoot of amusement still rang in his ears. _"Hey, Sam—looks like you might be getting yourself a new daddy!"_

Perched on a barstool, Sam raised his glass, only to discover it was empty. He hardly remembered swallowing the liquor. Breaking his strict personal rule, he ordered another and forced himself to drink it one sip at a time.

Slow, sad music was playing. He caught a drift of perfume as someone took the next seat. Without even looking in the barkeep's mirror, he knew that it was Florence—shapely, blonde, and forever on the prowl. More than a time or two he had welcomed her bold attention, but that was back before he met Jenny Flynn.

"Sam," crooned Flo in her husky voice, "you look a little down in the mouth. How about some friendly company?"

Sam raised his left hand, displaying a plain gold wedding band. "Give it up, Flo. Nothing's changed."

"So?" she asked flippantly. "You like jewelry. Well, I do, too."

Any other day, he might have found her persistence amusing. He might have flashed her that same charming Kirk smile that a woman could easily misinterpret. But turning toward her, he was dead serious. "This ring is more than jewelry, and it always will be. Get that through your bleached blonde head."

Her bright red lips parted in surprise. Then with a shrug she sauntered off into the shadows, searching for someone else to ease her loneliness. Feeling a twinge of pity, Sam downed the last of his whiskey and went outside. He had spent too much time in the tavern. The chill blush of dawn had chased away all but the brightest stars. He thought of his childhood home in Idaho, where it would still be dark. Too early to confront his mother…but never mind that, he had to know the facts and he had to know right now.

Engaging his wrist phone, he waited for the call to be completed. After a few rings she answered with a sleepy voice.

"Mom," he said, his heartbeat rushing the alcohol through his system. "Is it true about you and Spock? Is that picture real? Have you really been making out with that…that Vulcan bastard?"

There was no answer.

Sam gritted his teeth. "Mom, _have_ you?"

Sounding fully awake, she said, "I don't see where it's any business of yours, Sam Kirk. And don't you ever call him that again!"

So it _was_ true! And just now Sam could not trust himself to say anything more. Roiling with anger, he slapped the connection closed.

oooo

Sam was late getting home. It always put the fear into Jenny, although she tried not to dwell on the danger of police work.

The bacon was cooked, the potatoes fried to crispy brown perfection. Sam came off his shift hungry and she liked having a hot breakfast ready for him when he walked through the door. After a good, long kiss they always sat down and ate together. Then came a few blissful hours before she left for her nurse's training at the university and Sam lay down to sleep.

 _Why hadn't he called her?_ _Or answered her call?_ Worried, she stood at the living room window of their little house and watched the neighborhood brighten with the first light of day. She felt a nudging deep inside, and her hands went to her rounded belly as she listened for the sound of Sam's air bike. It was so cold out; he should have ridden the tube over to his precinct, but Sam enjoyed racing through the air even when the weather was freezing.

Where _was_ he? Something must be wrong, she just knew it. Sick at heart, she whispered a prayer for Sam's protection and before she was half finished, his bike rounded the corner and safely landed in the garage.

Jenny sighed in relief, but now that he was home, her Irish temper took hold. Would it have hurt him to use his phone and tell her that he was running late? Though she heard him coming through the kitchen, she stayed put, staring hard at the street.

"Jenny," he called out, "I'm home!"

"Oh, are ya now," she muttered under her breath.

Sam entered the room and walked up behind her.

"Sorry I'm so late," he said, slipping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her dark hair. "Are you mad at me?"

She smelled liquor. Biting down on her tongue, she turned around. His eyes were overly bright, almost glassy, and she might have expected a silly grin. But she could see at a glance that something bad had happened.

Her heart went soft. "Sam, what is it?"

He seemed befuddled, as if he could not make up his mind to tell her. _Must be work related,_ she thought. _A terrible accident or an ugly bust._ Sam usually kept the seamy side of policing to himself.

"Come on," she said, leading him back into the kitchen. "Let's get ya some food."

Sam felt lightheaded just sitting at the table watching Jenny fry eggs. He reached for his mug of black coffee and started drinking it down. Stupid of him, flying home in such a state. What if he'd been caught? Think of the headlines: _Tipsy Cop Arrested on Air Bike._ And then he could kiss his career goodbye.

"I stopped at O'Leary's for a drink," he told Jenny, as if she hadn't already guessed.

Wordlessly she filled two plates on the counter, brought them to the table, and sat down. Hungry, Sam dove into the hearty breakfast and was soon feeling more like himself. On his second cup of coffee, he was ready to share the news.

"You're not going to believe this," he began.

Jenny sat back and gazed at him, her pretty green eyes expectant.

"I talked to Mom this morning. Looks like she's really cozying up to her neighbor. There's even a photo circulating…locked in a lover's embrace. Spock, of all people!"

Her slim eyebrows drew together. "And would that be such a bad thing?"

Sam huffed. "After what one of his Vulcans did to you?" He kept right on talking, getting angrier by the minute despite his resolution to stay calm. "I should have seen this coming, back when Mom first started that rejuvenation therapy. I thought maybe she was doing it in case Dad came back from the Nexus, but now it looks like Spock put her up to it…maybe even without her knowing. Vulcans have ways of influencing a person's mind; he wouldn't even have to touch her, though it's plain to see that he's been touching her plenty."

Jenny's frown deepened and her hands settled protectively over the cute bulge below her waist. Was she recalling those frightful days when she carried a half-Vulcan baby—a child that she had no memory of conceiving?

"I can't be thinkin' such a thing," she said. "Not of Spock. Promise me ya won't do anything rash. Just go to bed and sleep on it, okay?"

oooo

There would be no riding the air bike tonight, Jenny was sure of it. Snow clouds were piling up thick as she drove home from her classes, a full hour early. She hoped Sam was getting the rest he needed, but as she settled the air car into its bay, she could hear him inside the house playing his horn—"improvising _",_ he called it. But not one of the bright, lively tunes he usually favored. Today Sam's music was as dark and haunting as his troubled thoughts.

Quietly entering through the kitchen door, she just listened, remembering the day he first pulled out the shiny trumpet, all embarrassed. He had bought it soon after he joined the Chicago force and saw the shiny instrument "calling out to him" from a pawnshop window. A few lessons had gotten him going, but once he showed the horn to Jenny, her encouragement made all the difference.

She left the kitchen and found him standing in the middle of the living room, playing with his eyes closed. Unknown to him, she settled on the sofa.

The music came to an end. As he lowered the trumpet, she clapped and said, "You're really gettin' good!"

Startled, he turned toward her. Even if he accepted the compliment, she knew that it was a father's praise he needed. Captain James T. Kirk walking into the room and saying, "Son, I'm proud of you." But that was not likely to happen.

Predictably, Sam shrugged. "I'm no great talent, that's for sure. You're home early."

"I cut me last class," she admitted with a sly smile. "Couldn't keep away from you."

Sam put down the trumpet and sat beside her. They shared a kiss. Looking tired and dejected, he snuggled close and stretched out his legs. Jenny could tell the alcohol had worn off. Now was the time to share the insight that came to her in the middle of a psychology lecture—the _real_ reason she left school in such a hurry.

She had never been one to keep still when something needed to be said, but she tried to begin gently. "Still frettin' about your mither?"

His jaw clenched. "I have to make her listen…somehow."

Jenny stroked his taut forearm. "Sam, you're a good cop, but you're not above the law. Sure, and none of us is."

Straightening up, he looked at her. "What do you mean by that?"

"The higher law, laid down by the Almighty Himself. He tells us we need to respect our parents, and I know how hard _that_ can be, when it comes to me own Da. Your mither's another story. She's a fine, sweet woman…and as for Spock, she could do a whole lot worse. I don't hold anything against him. Twasn't his fault, what happened to me, and he even helped find the culprit. Have ya forgotten that?"

Sam sprang up and stalked over to the window, where she had watched for him only this morning. His back was stiff with outrage.

"Can't ya just let it be?" she pleaded.

"No!" He swung around, as angry as she had ever seen him. "No, I _can't_ let it be!"

Drawing a deep breath, Jenny rose and met her husband's brooding gaze. "Sam, I'm going to tell ya something, and I want ya to listen hard. I think I know what your problem is, and it has nothin' much to do with Spock. You'd feel the same, no matter who kept company with your mither. It's all about hope, Sam…a little boy's hopeful wish…that one day your Da will come home and you'll be a real family again."

She fully expected him to deny it, but his handsome face fell as he confronted the painful truth. Looking very much like a hurt little boy, he said, "What if my father _does_ come home? What if he opens the door and finds _him?_ What then?"

"Then they'll invite your father right back out. Leavin' was his idea, and he's been gone a long, long time. Ya need to let go of the past. _We're_ your family now—me and this little one I'm carryin'. You have us to love, and…if your mither's taken a liking to Spock…ya might as well learn to live with it."

Scowling, he turned back to the window.

Jenny sighed. "Are ya mad at me, Sam?"

Staring at the first snowflakes, he shook his head.

She picked up the trumpet. Thinking to coax him out of his mood, she put the horn to her mouth and blew a terrible, sour note. That got his attention. A smile tugged at his mouth as he looked at her.

Not for the first time, she asked him, "How do ya make this confounded thing work, anyhow?"

"I've told you, it's all in the lips."

"Then there's somethin' the matter with mine."

Sam crossed the room, and taking her in his arms, kissed her thoroughly. Coming up for air, he gazed at her with heartfelt love. "Oh no, Irish, there's nothing at all wrong with those lips."

Jenny felt happy and relaxed to see him acting so reasonable again, even using her pet name. She patted his chest playfully. "You didn't sleep a wink, did ya? Lie down, darlin', and get some rest while I fix a nice dinner."

Sam knew that Jenny was right…at least when it came to lying down. His body ached with fatigue. He had missed out on sleep altogether, and before long he'd be back on patrol.

In the bedroom, he kicked off his shoes and stretched out, pulling the warm bedspread up to his chin. After the trials of the day, it felt good knowing that Jenny was near. His mind was still in a whirl. Until this morning, he had been thinking of changing his surname from Kirk to Cordova, the birth name that his mother used to sign her artwork. He was not sure if he wanted his children to be known as Kirks, but now he was upset with his mother, too.

Jenny hadn't liked the idea of changing names. _"You are who ya are,"_ she had said in that straightforward way of hers. _"At least when it comes to blood. It's up to you to make your name honorable."_ As for this latest theory of hers, perhaps it was valid, but he still felt like taking Spock apart.

oooo

Wind-driven snow was spattering against the windows when Jenny roused him. Sam joined her for a dinner of homemade beef stew, then rode the neighborhood transit tube over to the precinct. After readying himself for patrol, he grabbed a thermos of black coffee to take along. With Clay already starting in about "Spock-Daddy", it was going to be a long night.

For once, Sam let his junior partner slip into the control seat of their car. Sam was tired and distracted—a dangerous combination—and besides, driving under storm conditions would help keep Clay's mind occupied. The snow was coming down so thick that it was hard to see much of anything. Clay kept them moving slowly, a few meters above the ground, while Sam monitored the scanner. Before dawn, hover drones would be out clearing the city of snow, but for now even the sidewalks were empty. Not a single call came in to break the monotony.

Around midnight they were cruising South Parkway when a blip appeared on the dash readout. Sam yawned and leaned closer to the panel.

"Hold it," he said. "A solitary life form, out in the open. And it's not moving."

"A stray dog?" Clay's dark skin blended into the cockpit shadows as he brought the car to a hover.

Sam fine-tuned the sensor array. "No. A female child." In an astonished tone he reported, "And she's Vulcan!"

The patrol car settled into the snow, its spotlights flooding the child's coordinates. Sam saw something huddled near the entryway of a business.

"There she is." He threw open the door and his boots sank into the snow—a good seven inches, already. "Police officer!" he shouted over the wind. "We're here to help you!"

As Sam approached her, the child made no attempt to rise. Close-up, she looked about five years of age. She was shivering hard in her hooded coat—a good sign, for it meant that her body was still working to warm itself. They had found her before advanced hypothermia set in. Quickly Sam gathered her into his arms and brought her to the car. In the back seat, he wrapped a warming blanket snugly around her, pixie ear tips and all.

Rubbing her icy little hands, he asked, "Do you live around here?"

Her big brown eyes blinked at him.

"Maybe she doesn't know Standard," Clay suggested from the pilot seat.

"Sure, maybe she's a tourist," Sam said with a chuckle. Chicago in midwinter was not a popular destination for heat-loving Vulcans. "In any case, she seems okay. Let's get her back to the station."

oooo

The little girl attracted a crowd. Things were slow in the precinct, and the oddity of a cute Vulcan waif merited a peek for almost everyone. She was no longer shivering, but all the attention seemed to frighten her. Crowding close to Sam, she began to cry.

"Hey, look at that," Clay exclaimed. "Vulcans don't cut loose with tears."

A desk sergeant said, " _Yanashite_ kids might."

Sam grit his teeth, for in a flash he knew what was coming. Unless they could identify the girl, they would be calling for help. And the official Yanashite contact for this part of Earth lived on a piece of property called Plum Creek, over in Idaho.

Clay tagged along as Sam took the pint-sized Vulcan to an interrogation room equipped with a universal translator, and perched her on the edge of the table. After wiping away her tears, he tried to make her peer into a handheld identity scanner, but she refused.

"Honey, it's okay," Clay said in a comforting tone. A computer voice translated each phrase into Vulcan's First Language. "No one's going to hurt you. We're all friends here. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you need to use the bathroom?"

Her lower lip quivered.

Sam tried to coax her with a warm smile. "Oh, come on…you can talk to us. What's your name? Are you lost? Don't worry…we'll get you back to your mommy and daddy."

Clay nudged him and whispered, "Maybe she's deaf."

Sam hoped his partner was wrong. "I bet your parents are out looking for you right now. What's your name? I bet it's pretty…just like you."

The flattery had no visible effect as she stared down at her hands in silence.

oooo

At around two o'clock in the morning, Clay placed a call to Spock. Sam could only hope that the halfling would not come personally. Maybe Spock would use his authority to send some other representative of the Yanashite Community. Of course, none of this would be necessary if the little girl would answer their questions. Instead she just sat there, teary-eyed, refusing everything but plain water.

Sam left her in Clay's keeping and paced the hallway. After a few minutes he heard the transporter booth activate. Then there was no mistaking the deep sound of Spock's voice. _Damn!_ Coming to a halt, he braced for the confrontation. A desk officer came walking down the hall with Spock and needlessly introduced them. Sam worked to keep his emotions in check as he explained the situation. Then opening the door, he ushered Spock inside. The child's eyes widened at the sight of a fellow Vulcan.

Coolly Sam asked, "Mr. Spock, do you recognize her?"

Dressed in casual Earth clothing, Spock went over to the girl and studied her with a mild expression. "No. But she has the look of a T'rg S'ha."

He spoke to the girl in Vulcan and she timidly replied. Observing Spock's gentle manner made Sam recall his own childhood contacts with the man. There was no getting around it, Spock had acquired some good parenting skills. Sam might not have been so patient if he was rousted out of bed in the wee hours of the morning. But then an unpleasant image popped into his head, and his blood pressure rose as he wondered, _Out of whose bed was he rousted?_

Spock ended the conversation and faced the officers.

"Well?" Sam snapped.

Spock's dark eyes briefly bored into him before he replied, "The child is being uncooperative."

Sam felt his face go hot. Was Spock referring to the Vulcan girl or implying that Sam was the "uncooperative child"?

Clay's voice cut through the tension. "Mr. Spock, can't you do that…that mind thing?"

Spock turned his attention to Sam's partner. "Impose mental contact on a child? A violation of that sort is unwarranted."

An aggressive urge made Sam step closer. "And what _would_ warrant it? What would it take for you to justify influencing someone's mind?"

"That question has no bearing on the present situation."

"Oh, it doesn't? But you could make her _want_ to cooperate. Easy enough for someone like you. Just plant a little thought in there…and she'll love you like her own Vulcan daddy."

Off to the side, Clay squelched a snicker.

Spock's mouth tightened and a slanted brow twitched in the Vulcan equivalent of an eye roll. He addressed Sam very politely. "May I have a word with you…in private?"

At Sam's nod, Clay took the child into the hall and closed the door behind them. The room seemed to shrink as Sam stood toe to toe with the man he had once called "Uncle". From out of nowhere, an annoying riddle popped into his mind. _If he marries my mother, will my mother be my aunt?_

Spock broke the silence. "This is not the first time that I have detected a marked degree of hostility in your manner."

Sam let out a short, humorless laugh. "Really. And that surprises you?"

"Sadly, no. It does not."

Sam clasped his hands tightly behind his back; the self-righteous Vulcan was too tempting a target. "I suppose Mom cued you in on our conversation yesterday morning."

Spock assumed a perplexed expression.

"Before dawn. Perhaps you were there? In her bedroom?" Sam knew he was pushing it too far, but the words had already spilled out.

Spock's eyebrow climbed.

Sam was itching for an admission of guilt. "As I see it, there's only one reason my mother would be interested in you. And it involves underhanded Vulcan tricks!"

Spock sighed. "Your behavior is bordering on the irrational. You have known me all your life. Have I ever given you any cause to distrust me?"

"One of your Vulcans gave me cause…when he raped Jenny." Sam quickly seized on another accusation that Spock could not easily deny. Years ago, the Vulcan had purchased the Plum Creek property from Sam's father. When Spock later discovered a rich deposit of gold, he kept suspiciously quiet about it. Not exactly theft, but the Vulcan's secrecy hinted of greed and had rightly infuriated Jim Kirk. "How about that gold? You helped yourself to my family's money…and now you've got your hooks into my mother, too."

The startled look in Spock's eyes told Sam that he had scored a hit. He fully expected him to bring up the same tired excuse—how the strict secrecy was meant to protect Yanashites from the ill-will some humans had harbored against Vulcans since the early days of contact.

But Spock merely said, "If it is the gold that concerns you…"

Sam unclasped his hands and with fists clenching, erupted in fury. "This isn't about the gold! It's about my mother! Keep your stinking hands off her!"

The room went dead quiet.

For the first time in Sam's memory, Spock dropped his Vulcan mask and spoke with all the emotional intensity of a human. "Sam. I am not the man in those photos circulated by the press. Please believe me. I am still bonded to my wife T'Naisa, and await her return."

Sam loosed a derisive chuckle. "You expect me to believe that?"

Stiffening, Spock opened his mouth to speak, but Sam beat him to it. "You're going to tell me that Vulcans never lie. Well, don't bother. I've heard that old chestnut, and it's a pile of crap."

The Vulcan looked upon him with displeasure. "So…I am a liar. What, then, has your mother told you? Is she also lying? And I cannot help but wonder what hurtful things you have said to her."

"As if that's any business of yours," Sam growled in words eerily similar to his mother's. Striding to the door, he opened it and beckoned to the little child at Clay's side. "Come on, kiddo. Let's try again."

 _Kiddo._ He caught Spock's eye and flushed. "Kiddo" was an expression his father had used, and they both knew it. Sam could almost feel Jim Kirk standing in their midst like an uninvited ghost. Would _he_ believe Spock was innocent? 

Clay handed the girl over to Spock. The elder Vulcan directed her to a chair, then sat beside her. Sam stood nearby, arms folded tightly across his chest as more childhood memories of Spock plagued him. Hardening himself, he ordered, "Two-way translation…for the record."

Once more, Spock began questioning the little girl in their native Vulcan language. "What is your name? Are you here in Chicago with your parents? With a guardian?" When she gave no response, he continued. "Your family will be worried when they discover you are missing. Don't you want to go home now?"

Her head bowed and her eyes filled with fresh tears. Then scooting close to Spock, she put her arms around his neck and whispered in his pointed ear. Watching, Sam felt another traitorous pang of nostalgia, for there was a time, long ago, when he had murmured childish secrets in those same receptive ears.

The girl settled back into her chair.

"May I tell these kind officers?" Spock asked her.

She gave him a nod.

"Translator off," Spock said as if he were still giving orders in Starfleet. "Prepare to take a report."

Clay worked the tabletop console. "Ready."

"Her name is T'rg S'ha T'Nora," Spock said, spelling it for the record. "She is staying with family at the Chicago River Inn. T'Nora got out of her bed, dressed, and on her own decided to leave the premises."

"You mean she ran away?" Clay asked.

T'Nora looked up at Spock. Perhaps she did speak some Standard, after all.

Rising, Spock went up to the officers and spoke in an undertone. "She meant only to walk in the snow, but lost her way when her tracks filled. She…is not eager to return and face her mother's displeasure."

"Kids," Clay said with a wry smile.

Sam mulled over Spock's remark. Searching for some hidden meaning in every word had become a habit. Finally he nodded.

Spock bid farewell to the child, and Clay. Then his eyes met Sam's and they measured one another, each man guarding his own thoughts.

"Officer Kirk," Spock said, and went out the door.

oooo

T'Nora was safely in the arms of her mother when Sam's duty shift ended.

"Join me for some coffee?" Clay asked in the locker room as they changed out of their navy blue uniforms.

Sam yawned. "Not today." He badly needed some rest. Settling onto a corner bench, he waited for the room to clear before using his wrist phone to send Jenny a message.

"I'm running a little late," he told her. "Don't worry…I won't be long."

Then with a churning in the pit of his stomach, he called his mother.

"Sam, is that you?" She answered so quickly that he knew she had been lying awake. _Waiting for Spock's return? Perhaps he was already there, right at her side._

"Just came off my shift," he began, carefully holding his voice steady. "Sorry to bother you so early again, but this really can't wait…" He swallowed hard. "Spock was here tonight. He told me that he's not the one in the picture. Is that true?"

Antonia sighed. "Sam, he wouldn't lie. I'll tell you right now that it wasn't him kissing me. Photos are easily faked, you know."

Yes _._ He knew…and he should have considered that possibility before jumping to unsavory conclusions. Although a question still remained—if not Spock, then _who_?—there was an easing of the bitter tension as he grudgingly said, "Then I guess I owe you an apology..."

Afterward he put on his coat and exited the building. The storm had let up, leaving the air still and frosty. Stars peeked through little breaks in the cloud cover, painfully reminding him…as always…of his missing father.

Troubled, Sam strode down the freshly cleared sidewalk.

oooOOooo


End file.
